


Don't be Afraid to Care

by chr1711



Category: Wycliffe (TV)
Genre: Bears, Coming Out, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chr1711/pseuds/chr1711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doug Kersey gets more than he bargained for when he walks into a pub in That London, and admits to feelings he had long repressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't be Afraid to Care

Don't Be Afraid to Care  
Chr1711  
Fandoms: Wycliffe

 

Doug Kersey isn't beginning to wish he hadn't stepped into a pub while up in London. He wished this some time ago when he ducked through the door of the King's Head, Moravia Street and made it to the bar before realising that the customers were all male, and large, and many of them hairy and bearded.  
He's of a generation where 'all male pub' normally doesn't trigger any flags other than 'is it all about to go off?', and he doesn't get that vibe from this pub. Besides, the 'all about to go off' places are often worse if there are sweethearts and wives there cheering on 'their' men to beat the shit out of each other.  
He stayed for a pint though, hadn't had one for twenty-four hours and that was too long.  
"What do you do then?" The big guy next to him asks.  
"I'm a, er, police officer," says Kersey. The man grins.  
"Not what you were expecting?" he says. "It isn't, is it?"  
Kersey turns back to his beer.  
"I'm Stanley," says the man.  
"I am Detective Inspector Doug Kersey," says Detective Inspector Doug Kersey.  
"A fine name," says Stanley. Kersey isn't small but Stanley towers a head higher than him.  
"You really don't like us, do you?" says the man on the other side, barely smaller than Stanley.  
Kersey feels the booze go to his head, relighting last night's drunkenness and he realises what has been at the back of his mind for some time. He'd even missed the rainbow flag above the bar.  
"I'm not gay," he says.  
"Never said you were," says Stanley. "Did I, Maurice? Any more than, say, if someone asked me if I disliked black people I'd say, 'I'm not black.' It isn't the point. Oh, and by the way I'm fine with black people, just not closeted police officers. Maurice, do you think Doug is hiding something? Or else why would he be here?"  
"Indubitably," says Maurice.  
"I like women," says Doug.  
"So do I," says Stanley. "Like 'em just fine, but I think our bedtime preferences lie in other directions. Have another pint."  
Doug sees that his pint is indeed nearly empty and lets Stanley buy him another.  
"I mean I like women. For that," Kersey says.  
"Ooh, you like having sex with women, do you?" Stanley mock-simpers. "Oh, so soft and sweet. Well, sunshine, let me tell you." He growls. "I like cock! Big hairy blokes in leather with massive arms and big cocks. You soft southern Jessie."  
Despite the closeness of several very large and apparently unfriendly men Doug Kersey takes a swing at the speaker.  
"I'm not," he growls as his fist glances off the side of the man's head, "Southern."  
The big man smiles and nods.  
"Unusual that," he says, "you to hit someone who could do the same to you back. I know your sort." He rubs the side of his head. "Anyhow, you are Southern. You're Cornish, aren't you? That's in the south." he fakes a terrible accent. "Moi luverrr."  
The barman hurries over. Have to go if you're going to do that kind of thing lads. But he goes away again, mollified. This is a respectable pub after all.  
"Didjer see the police brutality there?" Maurice says. "A good thing you're off duty, orificer. At least I hope you arse, I mean, are."  
Kersey stiffens. No, not like that. He's barely over the police-brutality rap that started when a suspect died while under his custody. He knew the guy had done it, he was guilty as bloody sin, but that, he was told in no uncertain terms, was no excuse.  
He needs more beer. Eventually his friends drag him out of the pub and ask him where he's staying.  
"The … " but he can't remember. This is not good. This is very not good. Maurice suggests taking him back to Maurice's flat which is down in Peckham.  
"Prices these days," he complains, "normal people with proper jobs can't even afford Zone 3. I know people complain but they should. It's all right for you, Stan, you could move back to Manchester. I can't even go home. Been priced out."  
The two of them support Doug between them into a taxi.  
"You haven't drugged me, have you?" he wonders incoherently, sausaged between the two bears. Maurice kisses him.  
Doug pulls away, outraged.  
"Oh do stop it," says Maurice. "You are free to leave at any time, you know that?"  
Doug has not been able to pull away very far until he slides into the impressive bulk of Stanley on the other side.  
"We need some wine," says Maurice. "Or even some port. Stanley. That's good, Port Stanley. Did you hear that?"  
Doug bristles.  
"I was in the Falklands," he says. "You should not mock. My friends died."  
"I'm very sorry to hear it," says Stanley and slides an arm round his neck. Doug leans into him.  
"Is that why you're such a nasty piece of work?" Stanley asks sweetly.

PTSD, Stanley thinks. Far be it from him to tell Doug Kersey that he's originally Stanislas and he was born in Gdansk, that his parents fled Poland with him after the Solidarity debacle and his grandparents were in the camps during the Nazi occupation. He recognised PTSD in them and also in Doug Kersey. But why, as he and Maurice ladle the semi-conscious Doug into one of Maurice's solid armchairs, does this make him, as he said earlier, such a cowbag?  
"Ferry 'cross the Kersey," Maurice sings sweetly as they ladle the semi-conscious police officer into the chair.

"What is it?" asks Maurice. "It's a fifteen-inch dildo. Of course."  
He wields the implement thoughtfully.

Doug tells them everything. About the youth they dragged in and beat a confession out of, about how he opened up and then hanged himself in his cell. About how Doug Kersey and his reactions were to blame for the whole episode.

That boy who killed himself, says Stan. Because of you. Turned to you for help and what did you do? Quite the opposite.  
He wash … was a killer, says Doug. He is eyeing the fifteen-inch dildo warily.  
So you killed him, says Stan. Because you couldn't bring yourself to give a shit about your fellow man.  
But we all know why, says Maurice. Because secretly, inwardly, you thought that caring about him might open the doors.  
Kersey gets up, at least when the two bears seize him and carry him to the bed.  
The doors we mean, says Maurice, to you admitting it. The doors of perception as Aldous Huxley put it and Jim Morrison, may he rest in peace, said later. To you admitting, darling, that you are in fact … well, not even bi, wouldn't you say, Stan?  
I would, says Stanley. Gay as a very gay thing in a room full of gay things on Gay Day. And you have the beard to go with it.  
Stanley kisses him. To his surprise Doug finds himself responding.  
Enthusiastic consent, Maurice says. That's what we like.

He wakes up the next morning with a bear slumped each side of him, a tangle of limbs, a sour earthy smell enveloping them but one he thinks of as home.  
He thinks of the night gone by. Had they really used the fifteen-inch dildo on him? He imagines not. It was all Stan, and then Maurice, and then Stan again. He remembers being on his knees, sucking heartily until the jism splashed into the back of his throat. And crying, crying for the boy he killed. Maybe that was the most important thing.  
And Stanley kissing him just before he slipped into unconsciousness, and saying,  
Don't be afraid to care.


End file.
